How could skin feel so cold?

Icy fingertips touched his face, light but steely against his cheekbones. Cold, hard palms pressed to the high curves of his cheeks, cradling his face like carved stone. And the breath of this stranger—it hit his face like conditioned air. But when Jaylin opened his eyes, there was no one.

He was in the dark, his body lit with an antagonizing fire, like he'd been stung by wasps on every inch of his flesh, and a stranger kind of pain pulsed behind his eyes. He sat up, but his arms ached and his legs felt so heavy, Jaylin fell back into whatever sheets he rested in—until he finally woke the strength in his biceps and perched himself up on the edge of his bed.

No, it was a cot, not a bed. His eyes had adjusted enough to see that now. But Jaylin could see nothing else, save for the slightest reflection of light, glaring from a window—no, a wall—ten feet away. A glass wall, like the ones they'd put Olivia in.

For some reason, he couldn't stand. It wasn't that he didn't have the strength, but it felt too much like he hadn't the feet to stand on. Like there was nothing between him and the ground but stale, recycled air.

He took a step and fell to his knees. And for a moment, Jaylinpaused to feel along his calves. To make sure his legs were there. Every touch felt like a jolt of electricity, burning into his skin and his bones and choking his muscles. He dragged himself forward, gripping at the tiles beneath his fingers. One slow crawl, then another until he could feel the wall in front of him. Slick and cold as he pressed a palm to the glass.

Just then, a light burst on, burned his eyes and set that painful pulse on overdrive.

He groaned and hid his face in the floor until the pain fizzled away. Cowering from the brightness, Jaylin listened, and when he heard nothing, he forced his eyes to open again.

He was in a room within a room—a glass box inside of a small white space. Outside of his walls existed no one and nothing but a desk, a chair, and a scant amount of computer equipment. Not a person in sight, no one but himself and the wall between him; he must have triggered a motion-sensor light.

Jaylin mustered his strength, teetered up onto his feet, clinging to the glass while he found his footing on dead legs. And when he saw what lived in the reflection, he felt the air stop in his throat and turn to a lump too hard to swallow.

His legs were black once more. Black as glinting onyx. And his arms as well, black all the way to the blades of his fingernails. The dark stretched up his shoulders, carried partway over his chest, and painted his entire neck slate. It nearly looked like he'd rubbed himself dark with pencil lead. No, it was darker than that. Dark like the coat of a raven.

The black, though—it stretched on like litchenburg figures. Little lightning cracks, growing up his jaw line, crawling crooked up either side; reaching over his face like frightening, spindly little fingers.

Jaylin felt his knees go, and he was on the ground again, palms sliding down the glass as he yelped out. Every bit of his black flesh hurt, and the bones beneath. Every nerve in his body was being twisted and tortured beneath his cursed skin.

Something clicked from outside the glass and when Jaylin looked up, a man was stepping in through the door, a long white coat caping at his heels and a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. At first he looked surprised. When his eyes met Jaylin's, he stopped for a moment. Just stared, like he was waiting for a question—a shout, a scream, anything but the nothing Jaylin gave him. Once the man accepted the silence, he set his coffee down on the desk and lowered himself into the chair, folding his coat beneath him like a musician elegantly perched on his piano bench.

The man adjusted his glasses. "Wasn't expecting you to be up so early. I was a bit surprised to see the lights on."

"Who are you?" Jaylin asked.

"How bad's the pain, on a scale of one to ten?"

"What?"

"I can hear it in your voice," the man said, tapping around his computer mouse until the screen flashed on. His fingers worked the keys so effortlessly, so quickly, it was obviously an action that had become organic to him over time. Half a second and he was signed into a program—the logo of the golden sun glowing on the screen.

"I don't know." Jaylin cringed. "Eight."

The man's eyes seemed to stagger on him, stuck somewhere behind the round lenses of his sharp glasses. Then he nodded and his fingers gallivanted from key to key in one swift horizontal swipe. "I'll put a request in to the medical ward."

Jaylin curled into himself. Into the pain and the fear he felt digging into the core of him. "I want to go home."

"I know, kid," the man said, "I'm sorry."

Jaylin was surprised to hear the sincerity in his voice. He looked up, took in the stranger fully for the first time.

He was older, late forties, maybe. A bit unkempt, but he had a kind face; full cheeks, glasses magnifying his umber eyes, short brown-gray hair curling just over the rims. And he frowned into his computer screen with something Jaylin could only assume was sympathy. Maybe guilt.

It compelled Jaylin to ask, "Why are you doing this?"

"I have to log your nightly progress," the man said. "Observing your chrysalis. It's important we know just how your body's changing in the following days."

"No. Why are you doing this?"

The man turned in his chair, lifted the glasses from isface and rubbed circles at the lens with the soft side of his tie. Then he set them back on his nose and smiled—a small, difficult smile. "There's just no rest for the wicked. I suppose that's why."

"I'm not wicked," Jaylin whispered into the glass.

"No, kid. I am." That was the last thing he said. Jaylin couldn't ask another word before the man hit a few buttons on his keyboard and the screen died out to an empty black. The last sight of him was the hem of his white jacket, undulating at his back. Then he was gone completely. The door sealed itself closed with a slow, mechanical click and again Jaylinwas left alone. Nothing but the glass and himself.

-

It was a three-hour drive to Salem. Seven people packed in Matt's Jeep Wrangler, five seats. Matt drove, of course—it was his only request, that no one else take the wheel. Quentin directed him from the passenger seat, and Tisper sat in the back, crushed between Elizaveta and Izzy; Leo took most of the room, hunched over on the far side and passed out cold against the window.

Bailey was left with no option but the trunk, suffocated by supplies and scowling for every manhole and speed bump the Wrangler so crudely barreled over. On occasion, they'd fly over a pothole and Tisper would hear the thud of his head hitting the hatch, then he'd grumble a disgruntle curse and go quiet again.

Her thoughts had no room to spare for Bailey. She was in another place—imagining where she'd go, what she'd do once they got Jaylin back. Impractical maybe, but it was the only thing keeping her sane.

She'd always dreamed of taking the interstate down to California. Spend a week in LA, dip her toes into Long Beach or Laguna Beach or Manhattan Beach or whatever beach with actual sand and actual sun.

The beaches back home were fine, if you were lucky enough to find a summer day where the coast was clear and the heat could pierce the chilly water-side enough to warm it beyond the mid sixties. They were good for fishing, great for long walks with cozy sweaters and warm coffee.

But they weren't picture perfect. And Tisper dreamed of picture-perfect things.

Maybe because right now, under the stars and the black infinite sky, and the red glower of the blossoming moon, the world was a mess of imperfection. Everything. Everything was wrong.

Salem seemed pretty right though. It was a beautiful place, even in the dark of night. It shared its similarities with the rest of the evergreen world, but there was something whimsical about it. A treasure, humble and hidden away in the hustle and bustle of the West Coast.

Quentin directed Matthew to an address in West Salem—one that took him up a lorn and lonely road, where the Douglas firs lined each side like towering picket fence, cutting out the ireful scarlet moon.

They stopped at an address on the left side of the road—pulling into the cobblestone driveway of a two-story home. Six bedrooms at least, judging from the broad, beautiful exterior; sharp square architecture, a round-about driveway, flat-trimmed hedges and accent lights lining each side of the pavement, all the way to the welcome mat on the front stoop. The kind of home you see in movies, Tisper thought. Picture perfect.

"I don't get it," Matthew said, killing the engine. "Looks like a typically upper-middle-class home. Why are we here?"

"We call them watch-houses. It's like a border house," Quentin explained, snapping free of his seat belt. "A lot of my sentinels domesticate together."

"Live as a pack, die as a pack," Izzy declared from the back seat.

Tisperfound herself tracing the shape of her face. Her small, round forehead and button nose. She was so cute, this strange little woman—an innocent face but with the body of a goddess. Again. Picture perfect.

"Do you live in a watch-quarter?" Tisper asked.

"Yeah, we all do. But it's not nearly as nice as this one. Look at the privacy—those giant trees and all that room to run. I bet they get to turn every night. I'm jealous."

Elizaveta hissed out a jealous disgusted sound.

Tisper caught Quentin's dark eyes graze the rear-view mirror, only for a second. "We'll look at relocating you. But only if we get through this."

"Really?" Izzy leaned over the seat in excitement. "A new watch house?"

"Ah, you're too soft on em." Leo was yawning and stretching out his beefy arms, face full of sleep and cheeks red with beer. "It's their life's purpose to do what you want, not their day job. Stop with the spoils, y'll rot their teeth."

"I've seen your sentinels, Leo." Quentin pushed open the passenger door and descended from the Wrangler. "You should think differently of women who could rip your teeth from your mouth and wear them like pearls."

Leo gave a hearty laugh of agreement and struggled out after, then Elizaveta was hopping gracefully to the pavement.

"The rest of you stay," Quentin said. "We'll be back."

"Dammit," Izzy sighed, watching them pass between the golden accent lights. She reclined back in her seat and kicked her legs up over the empty space where Leo had been. "Wanted to give my legs a good stretch."

Tisper hooked the headrest in front of her and pulled herself to her feet, ducking from the roof as she took a gander over the shoulder of the passenger seat. She couldn't see much through the decorative brush but the front door—wide and open and beaming with warm orange light. The others must have gone in, but she could just faintly make out the shape of Leo, hobbling over the threshold.

"Hey, I thought you guys were supposed to heal faster?" She fell back into her seat, minding what tiny bit of the front door she could see through the gaps in the bushes.

Izzy was leering through the window too. It seemed that being cut off from the others made them all a little uneasy. "We heal pretty fast. Like, fifty percent faster. All that super-speed healing goes kaput when there's bane in our blood though. Leo probably won't be better for another week."

"What do you think they're doing in there?" Matt asked, his fingers curling and uncurling around the leather of the steering wheel. "We're not gonna get like, ambushed or somethin', right?"'

"Probably not." Izzy shrugged. "He's looking for his sentinels, that's all."

Then Quentin appeared from the watch house, passing through the orange light with the others on his heels. He tossed open the passenger door, shut it just as quickly behind him. Before the haggard Leo was even entirely in, he said, "Drive."

Matt looked him over, accepted his silence with the twist of his keys. The engine roared to life and Matthew jerked the gears into reverse. They were back on the main road, driving between those colossal firs when Matt's curiosity seemed to best him. "So what happened?"

Quentin's eyes were somewhere else. Not on the distance, or the dashboard, or the reflection in the mirror above, but on his thoughts. "They're not there."

"Where else would they be?"

"Nowhere else."

"So what?" Matt asked. "So we're just giving up?"

"No."

"We gotta find a hotel or somethin' champ," Leo said, head lulling against the window. "Get some rest, be better off tomorrow."

"My wolves are missing," Quentin contended. "The youngest patrol in that house was sixteen years old."

"I'm sure they're alright. Besides, it's ten AM and we haven't slept," Izzy garbled through a yawn. She even yawned pretty. "Really, how much help could we possibly be all sleep drunk out of our minds?"

"They're right." It was Tisper that spoke next. It pained her, to stop the search. To end the night empty-handed. But they were right. "Look at Matt, he's going to pass out at the wheel at any second. And you—Quentin, you look worse off than any of us. I want to find Jaylin as soon as possible, but we won't be any good like this. We need sleep. Let's at least pull over and get some shut eye for a couple of hours."

In the reflection of the mirror, Tisper watched his eyes shift away. Then he inhaled deeply through his nose, and the silence wore on Quentin like a cloak.

She knew he felt responsible. She ached for him, too. Defeat wasn't a fit feeling for the knight in shining armor.

"Okay," Matt agreed in a tired sigh, fingers still crimping around the wheel. "So a hotel it is."

A clatter came from the back, a crash of equipment as Bailey launched up out of dead sleep. His eyes were searching the glass windows, watching the firs pass by like something lurked beyond them. "Stop the car," he ordered.

Matt pressed on the breaks and the Wrangler halted with a jarring bounce. "Stop, go. Jesus, what do you people want from me?"

"What is it?" Quentin asked, twisted around in his seat.

Bailey shoved open the hatch window and the glass rose, filling the jeep with brisk air.

"I smell it," Elizaveta said.

Izzy nodded. "I smell it too."

"What?" Matt searched the faces around him—all of them focused to the left. To a gap in the trees, where the brush had been stamped flat into the earth. "What do you smell that's so goddamn important?"

Quentin gave the passenger door a hard open shove and Matt watched him unbuckle with an incredulous look. But all Quentin said as he stepped out of the vehicle was, "Blood."

Then he was gone into the dark.

-

Jaylin awoke to a prick in his arm.

He saw the red first, filling a glass vial, then his eyes focused to the fingers that held it, the white jacket—the too-big glasses of the man from the night before.

"What's your name?" Jaylin asked, sleep heavy on his voice. He should be fighting, throwing fists, crawling with all of his strength from this prison. But he felt too tired. So tired. So he laid in the cot, let the man take his fill.

"Dr. Gunner Rowly," the man said, sliding the cold needle from his skin. "Suppose it's only right to give you my name. I am taking your blood after all."

"Why are you taking it?" Jaylin managed. But before Gunner could answer, he shut his eyes again and said, "I'm tired."

"It's the gasses they pump through those things," Gunner said, pointing to a vent on the floor a few feet away. "They're created to keep you tired. Slow you down until you turn. Well, that and it's five in the morning."

"Why tell me?" Jaylin asked. "Now I know how to stop it."

"Good," the man said. He popped off the needle and dropped the full syringe into a little plastic bag. "They used to have beds, you know. But the patients kept ripping open the mattress, shoving chunks in the vents to block them off."

"So it's hopeless, then. Trying to block them."

"Could use toilet paper," said Gunner. "But they'd get suspicious to find you always running out. Not to mention you'd have to mind the cameras. Each black dome on the ceiling is watching your every move. No audio, though."

"Why does it sound like you're helping me?" Jaylin asked, watching as the man withdrew another syringe from the medical case by his knees.

"Just one more," he said. "Need two samples."

Jaylin didn't feel the needle enter this time. He was studying the man, the round shape of his face, his furrowed brows. He looked like someone's father. Someone's brother. He didn't look evil, he didn't feel bad.

"Why are you wicked?" Jaylin asked him.

Gunner didn't look up. Not until he'd filled the vial and retracted the needle. Then his brown eyes escaped Jaylin, escaped the question altogether.

"You said it earlier. That you were wicked. You don't seem wicked," Jaylin tried again. He watched Gunner deposit the vial into another bag, and with his jaw grit, Jaylin pushed himself upright on his cot.

The man seemed gone to his thoughts, taking Jaylin by the soft of his black arm and pressing little bandages over the holes in his skin. "I've been at this a long time," he said. "Most people—most of the diseased, as Ziya calls them—most of them, they don't look at me when I come into their cells. They cower like a kicked dog. You playing tough or are you really not afraid?"

Jaylin wanted to laugh at that. He didn't. "I'm scared of Ziya. I'm scared of this place. I don't want to be here, I want to go home," Jaylin said. "But I'm not scared of you."

Again, the man said nothing, but sat in his indefinite silence.

"I'll be back tonight to log your progress," he said finally, pushing off from his knees with a small grunt and a crackle of aging joints. "A woman will visit you during the day. Her name is Doctor Peterson—never call her by her first name, Marge. She hates it—or maybe do; she's kind of a bitch. You'll have breakfast served in five hours. Plain eggs."

"Wait," Jaylin protested. "My friend, Olivia. The girl with the long dark hair. What are they going to do with her?"

Gunner looked back at him, his box of medical equipment hanging at his hip. "Keep your head down, kid. The lower the better."

Then he left through a door at the back of the cell—one Jaylin hadn't noticed before because of how seamlessly it blended into the white tile walls. As Gunner shut it, he noted the density of the metal—at least eight inches thick. All the way through, to the latch on the inner side. The room beyond was too dark, but Jaylin could make out supply shelves, bottles and boxes of things filling each inch.

When the door slammed shut again, it did so with a sound of thunder. An angry roar that trembled the ear. Jaylin feared the next time he heard that sound. Wherever there was thunder, there was lightning.

For another hour he laid in his cot. What else was there to do? He was too weak to stand—to walk to the door he'd discovered. To search for a seam or a crack, to find something—anything to pry open the metal, or break off the hinges and make his escape. And even if he found something, there was just no way. Not with the density of the door—of the fat steel hinges.

He was too tired. Too tired to fight. So Jaylin laid in his bed and he let himself float on Gunner's words. Let them soak into his bones. Keep your head down. What was that supposed to mean? How could he lay low when he was under constant supervision? The lower the better.

His eyes fell to the ground below, and Jaylin caught a speck of red on the white tiles. A drop of blood, escaped from the needle, maybe. He turned over, pressed his thumb to the bespattered drop, and as he hung lethargic over the side of his cot, something caught his eye beneath.

Jaylin let himself fall from the bed with a grunt—it was the only way he could have gotten down. He rolled onto his shoulder, reached under the cot, into the darkness for the object. He felt something soft on the tips of his fingers and Jaylin captured it in his hand, brought it to his face to study it in the shadows.

Once he understood just what he was staring at, a strike of hope sparked in his chest. Keep your head down.

Like an adrenaline rush, the exhaustion was gone now. Jaylin could feel the fight in him again. The lightning.

Gunner wasn't so wicked after all.